


Afternoon Cartoons

by sori



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-12
Updated: 2011-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 08:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sori/pseuds/sori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baseballs, teasing, and cartoons. After all, boys will be boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afternoon Cartoons

**Author's Note:**

> Beta thanks to audrarose and spikedluv!

Afternoon Cartoons by Sori

It’s one of those last rare days of summer - the leaves haven’t yet started to turn and it’s still t-shirt weather despite October showing up on the calendar. An Indian summer day even by California standards. The windows in the family room are open, warm air rushing in on the Santa Ana gales, bringing in the smells of the city and the sounds of the suburbs. Just another day.

Late afternoon already and the boys are stretched out around the television. Don on the too short, stained couch that he long ago claimed as his territory, baseball mitt on one hand, tossing a ball and catching it easily. _Baseballs outside, Don_ , his mother always yells but she pretends not to notice that 5 o’clock brings baseballs, cartoons, and Charlie into the family room, circling around Don. Charlie’s on the floor next to the couch, within touching distance of Don, but just far enough away that older brother sensibilities aren’t breeched.

We’re well into our late afternoon rituals. The LA Times opened to the sports section, the old recliner laid back just enough that I’ve got a view of the boys and the TV. Tom and Jerry flash across the screen, gray cat chasing brown mouse. Don’s laughing and the cadence echoes in tune with Jerry tapping out chopsticks on the cartoon piano. On the floor, Charlie’s counting, note by note, silently, nodding to the beat like he’s a conductor and the cartoon is his orchestra. Up-down, up-down, and if asked Charlie could undoubtedly list the notes and patterns and the meter. Perhaps he can’t yet appreciate the simplicity of the cartoon, but he can understand the complexity of the accompaniment.

The baseball thumps, bouncing off the floor, onto the ceiling, caught with Don’s quick reflexes. Maybe there’s a future there for Don; baseball and sports and college scholarships would be a good thing. Just has to fix the hole in his swing that his little league coach spent last season trying to correct. Pretending not to watch the TV – he’s too old for cartoons Don always says - yet he laughs when Tom runs through the cheese grater. That’s always been his favorite part. The last vestiges of boyhood being left behind, and lately he’s been showing interest in almost-a-teenager type things like cars and Sally Gillan’s boobs.

“Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” Don singsongs and Charlie giggles, not stopping his head-bobbing-note-counting. He’s used to working through Don’s distractions; maybe even needs them to focus his concentration. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,” and I wonder if Don wants Charlie to talk or to stop counting or to just pay attention to him. Hero worship is addicting, and Don’s had six years to get used to the feeling.

Leaning forward, Charlie stares at the cartoon. The music has changed and instead of pseudo-Mozart, it’s just normal cartoon music, fast paced, rhythm almost obscured by the action on the screen. He sits with his hands clasped and resting on his knees, clenching a little at every strong beat. Eyes fixed on the screen, but one of his fingers starts to move, rediscovering the new meter - listening more than watching, I realize. Sometimes with Charlie it’s hard to tell exactly what has captured his attention.

Swinging a frying pan, Jerry whacks Tom in the face. Tom shakes from the impact, stars spinning around his cartoon head before falling over and landing with a thump. Don laughs, throwing the ball high, letting it bounce off the ceiling and leaving a dirty round ball mark. “Don,” I say and he looks over, smiles and shrugs.

“Sorry, Dad.”

Don tosses the ball again, distracted, mostly watching Charlie count on his fingers. It’s hard to imagine what Don sees when he looks at his brother - twitchy and maybe a little strange in the eyes of an eleven-year old, Charlie is far from an average child. Some days, I think, it’s good not to know exactly what Don thinks of his brother.

Socked foot stretching out, Don taps Charlie on the back of the head. Keeps pushing, enough that Charlie’s rhythm is lost. “Hey!” Charlie’s whine makes Don smile.

“Dork, stop counting.”

“Not counting,” Charlie says, still staring at the screen, still not giving Don his attention. He pauses a minute before his head catches the rhythm again.

Don rolls his eyes, tossing the baseball mitt onto the floor. His socked foot taps against Charlie’s head, repeatedly, and it’s hard to hold back the smile. “Don.” Charlie reaches back, slapping at Don’s foot. Don snorts.

“It’s a cartoon, Charlie.” Sarcasm that seems at odds with an eleven-year-old boy. A biting edge proving that Charlie’s genius has affected everyone - even Don.

Maybe Charlie’s beginning to understand Don in some small ways. Don could care less about the rhythm and the cadence and the perfection of a well-timed strong beat. There’s no explanation, no comment made, just Charlie turning back to the TV, leaning forward a bit, just out of reach of feet and toes and legs. It takes him a minute, but the head bobbing starts, followed quickly by the moving fingers. Point-point-twirl-point, the movements an abbreviated shorthand that somehow makes sense in Charlie’s world.

A well-aimed throw by Don and the baseball lands with a thump in the middle of Charlie’s legs. Smushes Charlie’s fingers a little, and it probably doesn’t hurt as much as it surprises, but Charlie whirls around to glare at Don. Don on the couch, hands clutched to his stomach and he’s laughing harder than he has in the last 45 minutes of cartoons. Faint mumbling in between the chuckles, “Charlie, Charlie, don’t be a dork.”

Charlie opens his mouth to say something, anything, but he just stares, eyes wide, at Don. Anyone else doing the teasing and Charlie would be crying in fits, an almost-tantrum that would take an hour of quiet play to resolve. Instead, Charlie’s lips start to curl up into a slightly crooked smile and –

He leaps, jumping on top of Don, kneeing him in the stomach and getting a loud “oofff” for his troubles. Don wiggles and Charlie bounces against Don’s legs, shaking the couch and shoving Don deeper into the cushions. Charlie’s chanting, “Don, Don, don’t be a dork,” and I can’t decide who’s laughing the hardest.

Don grabs Charlie in a headlock, bringing his fist up for a noogie. Hard enough for Charlie to feel, gentle enough not to hurt even a small six-year old. Squealing and giggles; kicking legs and flailing arms; it’s scene that looks a lot like innocence and nothing like genius. A special gift that only Don can give: a moment of childhood for Charlie.

Gasping breaths take the place of giggles. Charlie sits on Don’s legs, feet dangling off the edge of the couch, swinging to a tuneless beat. Jerry slams a fireplace poker on top of Tom’s head, the metal bends and Tom shakes with comical vibrations. Charlie laughs, free and easy, no head bobbing or counting, just fun. Don’s hand reaches out, slapping Charlie’s shoulder, getting a toothless grin in return.

Baseball forgotten, mitt dropped carelessly on the floor, and for a moment it’s just two boys and their cartoons; the mouse chases and slapstick violence blending into the late afternoon. The breeze still blows through the family room, bringing in sounds of cars and dogs and, somewhere in the distance, the whirl of police sirens and the roar of a fire engine.

I sit and watch my boys. The perfect end to an ordinary day.


End file.
